


Aged Like Fine Wine

by Lhugy_for_short



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dry Orgasm, Inappropriate use of wine bottles, Intoxication, Lots of health code violations, M/M, Or maybe appropriate who cares Iggy likes it, Overstimulation, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 10:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13949700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: If someone had told Ignis that he would spend his evening bent over a bar counter, letting his handsome boss fuck him with a bottle of aged Nero d’Accordo, he would have called them mad. Hell, he might have even called the authorities.And yet there he was, scrambling for purchase against hard wood, rocking up onto his toes because the weight inside him felt so bloody good.





	Aged Like Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

> For FFXV Twinks and Daddies Weekend, Day 3 "Overstimulation" :D 
> 
> As soon as I heard "Daddies" I thought of Weskham, and dammit! The man deserves more porn! He is absolutely delicious and far too under appreciated. So. Here's a tribute to him. And to wine, which I drank a lot of while writing this. 
> 
> I'm sorry and/or you're welcome.

Eleven thirty, and it was nearly closing time. The last of the patrons filed their way up to the bar to pay their tabs. Ignis phoned helpfully for several taxis, and saw his regulars off with a smile.

A Friday night like any other at the Maagho.

Except that it wasn’t, not quite. Ignis had been on edge all evening, a tension that had started in his back and crept it’s way up his body. Stress, exhaustion, unease - maintaining both the schedule and the grades that he did took quite a toll - that at last settled into knots at the base of his neck; made him stiff and his smile a little tighter than usual.

Yet while his customers hardly noticed a thing, his boss, and the proprietor of the restaurant, was far too perceptive.

Ignis was just washing the last of the glasses when a familiar, deep voice approached him from behind.

“You seem tired, lad.”

He chanced a look back. Weskham Armaugh was standing with his arms folded casually over his chest, eyes a rich brown and missing nothing from behind his single lens. His suit jacket had been abandoned earlier in the night, and his sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows. Ignis couldn’t help notice - and certainly not for the first time - how strong and powerful his arms looked for a man his age.

The thought was shoved quickly to the back of his mind. “It’s nothing, sir. Just been a long week.”

“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that tonight,” Weskham chuckled. His eyes scanned the dim, empty restaurant, then landed back on Ignis with an unusual glint in them. “Luckily for you, I’ve got just the cure. Unless, of course, you were in a hurry to get home…?”

_Home?_ That lonely, single-room apartment where all that waited for him were more unfinished reports and an empty bed? Ignis glanced at the clock; not yet midnight. He could afford to stay a while longer. “Not particularly, sir. What did you have in mind?”

From the smile that broke across Weskham’s face, it was clear he’d expected just such an answer. Drawing a small key from the pocket of his waistcoat, he knelt down to a cabinet Ignis had never paid much mind to, and unlocked it. Opening it revealed a hidden trove of dark-colored, dusty bottles of wine, all of their labels aged and faded.

Weskham selected one that was decorated in a flowing, elegant script, and held the bottle up for Ignis to admire.

“Can you read it?” In awe, the brunette shook his head. “Neither can I, to be honest. It’s Altissian _Nero d’Accordo_ , aged half a century.” Here, Weskham paused to blow the thin layer of dust off the neck of the bottle, and smiled. “Same as me.”

Ignis found himself torn between the face of the wine bottle and the sharp eyes that watched him from above. When he spoke, his tongue felt unusually heavy in his mouth. “It’s beautiful. Must be very expensive, I’ve never seen it on the menu.”

“That’s because it isn’t. This is part of my private collection,” the older man explained as he expertly hooked a pair of wine glasses between his fingers and set them on the counter. “Something reserved for a special occasion. Or to share with the only person I’ve ever met who appreciates a good wine as much as I do.”

Everything he’d been about to say, every protest and excuse he could have given as to why his boss should definitely not waste such a valuable bottle on him died on his lips. Instead, he leaned subtly out of the way as Weskham reached for a corkscrew in the drawer beside him. Felt his breath quicken at the closeness, at the way the older man’s scent - spices and herbs - seemed to surround him as headily as if he’d already had several drinks. “I…. Mr. Armaugh, thank you. But I don’t think I can--“

“No need to overthink things. Drink with me. I would be honored.”

In the three months since he’d started his position at the Maagho, Ignis hadn’t had much chance to actually get to know the man he worked for. What he knew about him came from stories told by patrons, snippets of Weskham’s life that painted a picture of a cultured, influential gentleman. Ignis believed the stories readily.

Even before landing the job, he’d looked up to Weskham as a role model. After all, he’d been nearly as young as Ignis when he’d set off to Altissia alone, no money, no contacts; nothing but a love of food and a dream of running his own restaurant. Now, thirty years later, there wasn’t a gourmet in all of Eos that didn’t know his name.

And here was Ignis, out of his league and in over his head, watching as the man he’d admired from afar for years poured them each a glass of wine.

He accepted his drink with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Mr. Armaugh.”

“Weskham. Please.” The older man clinked the rim of his glass against Ignis’ and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Go on, lad, try it.”

Already, the smell of the wine alone was enough to wet his throat. Deep red, dark like mahogany, and rich with the scent of the earth; Ignis lifted the glass to his lips and breathed in deep. Let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh at the perfect blend of fragrances, and his eyes fluttered open to see Weskham standing closer than he had been before.

“How is it?” he asked, eyes roving not over the glass of wine, but instead over Ignis’ mouth. Blatantly, _hungrily._ The younger man’s heart skipped several beats.

“It’s….” There was an almost imperceptible flicker of red between his boss’s lips when he began to speak; _his tongue,_ Ignis realized. _Weskham couldn’t actually be flirting with him...could he?_ Clearing his throat, he started again, slowly, cautiously. Green eyes lifting to catch hazel brown. “It’s exquisite.”

A chuckle, deep and pleased. “Give it a taste.”

Ignis did as he was told. The thrill of that monocled gaze on him as he swirled his drink, pressed cool glass to his lips and drew a few drops between them, was exhilarating. Had his cheeks coloring even before the wine hit his tongue and sent his taste buds into overdrive. It pulled a sound from his throat that was long and low and not unlike a moan, and Ignis nearly melted back against the counter as he took another sip.

The sudden yet not unexpected hand on his lower back held him upright.

“Take it slow,” Weskham hummed. “No need to rush. This wine’s waited a long time to touch such beautiful lips. It deserves to be enjoyed to the fullest.”

At that one, Ignis outright flushed. Weskham was so close, his eyes so magnetic, and there was no way it was just the wine making him feel so warm inside and out. No, it had more to do with the hand on his back - the soft stroke of fingers beneath the tie of his bar apron - that was going right to his head.

“Mr. Armaugh….”

“ _Weskham._ ”

“Weskham.” The name sounded like a question on his lips. Hesitant, yet curious. Their eyes remained locked as Ignis once more brought his glass up and tipped the remaining contents into his mouth.

And leaned forward to close the distance before either of them could change their minds.

Wine trickled from the corners of his mouth as he opened them for his boss. Weskham didn’t hesitate in the least, brushed his lips against the younger man’s and then sealed them together, tongue already darting out for a taste.

Both glasses hit the counter. Their hands were free to rove now, to pull the other in even as Ignis’ back was pressed against the dark wood of the bar. His fingertips traveled up the front of Weskham’s waistcoat, up to the gold-and-ivory scarf tied about his neck, and used it to drag the man deeper into the kiss. Felt the vibrations in his own body as Weskham groaned, threw his own hands up to either side of Ignis’ head and all but devoured his mouth in his sudden urgency.

It left him breathless, dizzy, intoxicated. Ignis gasped for air the moment his boss pulled away - not far, only a brief reprieve - and the tastes and scents and _reality_ of what they were doing surrounded him. There was a half-second of panic, one in which Ignis nearly lost his nerve. But then Weskham was tipping another glass of wine in between his lips and any reservations he had were washed away that instant.

“Beautiful,” the older man repeated, his voice pounding like a drum in Ignis’ chest. “You’re so beautiful.”

He tried to smile around the glass, but his head was spinning too fast. It was all Ignis could do to swallow back what he was offered, and let his eyes speak for him where his words failed.

The first thing they seemed to say was, _More._

Weskham was, in every sense of the term, a professional. He alternated between kissing Ignis’ mouth, letting the taste of the wine blend between them, and marking up the pale curve of his neck, his throat, down to the skin exposed beneath the open collar of his shirt. Ignis could feel each and every one tingling even after Weskham had moved on, and the sensation of it traveled through the entire length of his body. Pooled at his hips, where his cock pulsed harder, bolder within its confines, driving him half mad with the need for something, _anything_ , more.

He found it in the form of a solid thigh, sliding up between his knees a moment later. Slowly at first, as if asking permission, as if asking how far Ignis was ready to go. But it took him only a heartbeat to answer. Grinding down, he felt Weskham’s body hot and firm beneath him, almost as hot as the breath against his neck, or the hands pawing at the buttons of his shirt. He rocked his hips forward again and this time Weskham thrust forward to meet him halfway. Powerfully enough to have his head tipping back in a strained moan and his fingers tangling in dark wool.

“Mr. Ar- _Weskham_ , _please_ ,” he gasped, surprising himself at the pitch of his own voice. “I need…!”

“Tell me. What do you need, baby? Daddy’ll take good care of you.”

_Oh._

_Dear._

_Gods._

Ignis’ eyes flew open wide, his breath hitched somewhere in his throat. What had struck him more than Weskham’s words was the _effect_ it seemed to have on him: the sudden quickening of his heartbeat; the surprise that jolted through him like a thrill of pleasure. Combined with the wine, and the kisses, it flung him into a daze, one which left him with no inhibitions and an unslakable thirst. He wanted - no, _needed -_ more, more of _everything._

The bottle of wine felt lighter in Ignis’ grip than he’d expected. He brought it to his lips, tipped it back and swallowed a mouthful of the sour liquid. Let some dribble out from the corners of his mouth to run down his chin, his throat, the front of his chest where Weskham lapped up each drop eagerly.

There was a grin on full, kiss-swollen lips when he glanced up again and caught Ignis’ gaze.

“Allow Daddy another taste, hm?”

“Yes, sir.”

The next time, he took even less care with the bottle. There was something powerful, something _exotic_ about the vision of the expensive red wine spilling down over his skin. Something sinful about the way Weskham licked it off of him, messy and yet not without method as he finished opening his shirt, slipped it from pale shoulders to land at their feet by the bar. His apron was next, and then his pants, until he stood before his boss near-naked and drenched in sweat and spit and wine.

And probably, honestly, a little drunk. In that moment, he was too buzzed to care how much he’d had to drink - or how much had ended up on his torso or staining his briefs. He felt _good_ , better than he had in months. Relaxed and energized at the same time. He felt _sexy_ , especially with the way Weskham was looking at him, hungrily as if trying to decide which part of his body he wanted to put his mouth on next.

He felt like turning around and stretching out on the bar counter, putting himself on full display in an offer Weskham couldn’t refuse.

So he did.

Blunt nails raked down the planes of his back. Hooked around the elastic hem of his briefs and pulled them down, gently, slowly as Weskham reveled in the sight of pale curves and spread thighs. “ _Mmm_ ,” he hummed, as if admiring a fine piece of art in a gallery. “You are absolutely _exquisite_ , lad.”

The praise went right to Ignis’ head, along with the alcohol. He rolled his hips back, chewed his lip as he watched Weskham raise the wine bottle once more into the air. The older man tipped it up, took a slow sip, and then, to his distress, poured most of the remaining contents right onto the soft mounds of his ass.

It was cold. It felt so strange (so _good_ ) running between his cheeks, over his perineum and down his trembling thighs. The moan that spilled from his lips was mostly unbidden, but it told Weskham everything he needed to know. Still holding the bottle as the last of the wine dripped down, he smeared his fingers through the mess; wet his thumb and rubbed the pad directly onto the ring of tight, slickened muscles between Ignis’ cheeks. And, when he sensed the younger man release a breath, pushed into him up to the first knuckle.

“O-oh! _Six_ ,” Ignis hissed, fingers curling into his palms atop the bar counter. Several heartbeats passed while the tension ripped through him, and then...then it faded to a dull ache, a pressure that built into a whine and tumbled from his lips over hard wood. “Sir, please. Please, _more_.”

That deep voice chuckled something, but he could hardly make out the words over the pounding of blood in his ears. Weskham’s thumb slid deeper into him, twisted slowly, curled against his silky walls before dragging out again. Back in, back out, back in, gradually working him open and leaving him gripping the counter with its languid pace. Just as Ignis opened his mouth to beg a second (or was it third?) time, the weight left him and in its place an emptiness that sucked the very breath from his lungs.

“Have you ever taken cock before?” Weskham was suddenly close. His voice was right in Ignis’ ear, his fingers on his back, massaging away the tension that lingered just between his shoulder blades. Expectant, waiting, and yet not impatient. Which suited Ignis fine as it took him several moments to find his words.

“I…. No. Not exactly. I. Want to.”

“Do you want to take Daddy’s cock?”

A whine that sounded very unlike himself. “ _Yes. I do.”_

“Can you be patient for me? Will you be a good boy?”

He meant to say yes. Opened his mouth for a breath and _maybe_ managed to form the singlesyllable before something _else_ was nudging at his still-tight hole. Something _cold_ and _hard_ and not at all like flesh and _oh gods, was he really going to--?!_

The bottle pressed forward. Smooth, slick with the residue of wine, it slid in past his protesting muscles until he felt the widened capsule catch on the inside of his rim. And pause for one merciful moment so that he could rake in a lungful of air.

“ _G...gods…. Weskham, please, take it out…!”_

“Hush, lad. Give it time.”

“ _N-nnh…!”_ Cheeks bright red and pressed flush to the countertop, Ignis bit back the cry that was building in his throat and tried to focus on relaxing his lower half. Stretched open, skin molten hot but clinging tight to cold glass, the sensations were too much for his mind to handle at once. If not for the alcohol, he might have lost himself right there, pinned as he was to the bar and naked under his boss’s ministrations.

Thankfully, Weskham knew what he was doing. The bottle moved within him, not pushing or even pulling out, but merely twisting, turning, coating the wine evenly until his body was ready to accept more. It slid into him inch by gradual inch, deeper and wider as the neck flared out. When Ignis stiffened or groaned, Weskham slid the bottle back out again, teased his hole with the mouth before working the length inside once more. Occasionally tipping the bottle up to spill a few more collected drops of rich, red wine into his body, and humming at the desperate moans he earned in return.

If someone had told Ignis that he would spend his evening bent over a bar counter, letting his handsome boss fuck him with a bottle of aged _Nero d’Accordo_ , he would have called them mad. Hell, he might have even called the authorities. And yet there he was, scrambling for purchase against hard wood, rocking up onto his toes because the weight inside him felt _so bloody good_ . Begging as saliva trailed over his lips for Weskham to touch him, _to please fucking touch him he was so close he was going to come_ \- and then whining like a certain prince he knew when all he got in response was a palm across his ass.

_Smack_ . Again, and he moaned with the last of the air in his lungs. _Smack. Smack_ . It stung with pain and guilty pleasure, and his eyes rolled back as the hard mouth of the bottle slammed into his prostate. Weskham alternated between spanking him, fucking him, and doing nothing at all - which was absolutely the most frustrating, but _gods_ , he knew what he was doing. By the time he slipped the sullied bottle out of his ass and let it drop to the floor with a heavy _thud_ , Ignis was breathless and wound up tight enough to come on contact.

Still, Weskham wasn’t finished, not yet.

Warmth replaced the chill left behind by cool glass. The older man’s cock was thick, throbbing noticeably as he rubbed the length between the cheeks of Ignis’ ass. Mixed the remnants of the wine with his own precum to slicken his skin, and coated the rest with saliva wiped from trembling, pleading lips. Ignis watched over his shoulder and through lust-fogged eyes as Weskham lined up, pushed the head of his dick past tenderized muscles and sighed, low and deep and satisfied.

Ignis was helpless. His voice spilled out into the otherwise empty restaurant again and again, words no longer intelligible but a series of gasps and moans that encouraged the body behind him to go faster, _deeper._ Weskham fucked him with all the power his muscles possessed, impressive even well past the prime of youth; drove into him in well-practiced thrusts, striking into his prostate at an overwhelming pace and tipping him, at long last, over the edge.

His cock twitched, once, twice. Then Ignis cried out as his vision went white behind his eyelids, the force of his unexpected orgasm tearing along his every nerve and painting the cabinets behind the bar with a generous burst of cum. At the same moment, his body clenched like a vice both around the edge of the counter and around Weskham inside him.

The older man groaned, but he didn’t - _couldn’t_ \- stop. Not until he’d fucked Ignis right through his climax and kept going, pounding faster and faster into fluttering walls as his own stamina began to give. Beneath him, that lean, pale body squirmed. Though he’d just come, Ignis’ cock still hung heavy and swollen between his thighs, swung wildly as Weskham gripped either side of his hips and let loose the last of his restraints.

Sex splashed deep and hot inside of him. Ignis could feel it, as acutely as he’d felt the burn of the wine and the cool surface of the bottle before. His body twitched with overstimulation, his breath puffed across the counter in ragged, shallow bursts, and even his legs quaked with the effort of supporting what little weight he tried to put on them.

Luckily for him, Weskham’s strong arms were for more than just show. He was grateful for them now as the older man scooped him up, turned him into his chest and kissed his brow, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. Held him upright as elegant fingers found the still-hard shaft of his cock and stroked him, slow and purposeful, until Ignis was coming a second time, dry but still mind-shattering, in his masterful fist.

The last thing he remembered, as Weskham carried him to an open booth and laid him down still wrapped in those powerful arms, was the voice next to his ear; deep, familiar, and surprisingly soothing.

“Next time you need someone to take good care of you,” he hummed. “You let Daddy know.”


End file.
